A Soldier's Psalm
by Emgee Kagamine
Summary: He was Canada. He was Matthew. On the lifeless battlefield, he was just another khaki coloured soldier in the midst of the Great war. Decades passed; and even then. He remembers.


_I remember you often…_

Those were the words that repeated themselves over and over again in his mind, like an old vintage record stuck on a note.

He stood on a hill, the tallest he could find. The wind blew, gently, softly, as if to assure him that life carried on; regardless of the past.

He would _never _forget; nor would his provinces; the animals, the terrain, the humans that suffered for far too long to ever simply _forget_.

He remembers the first Great War; his enthusiasm! His heroism! To be part of an allied victory!

It didn't last.

Enthusiasm turned to great depression; the hundreds, thousands, millions of casualties that fell before him; was this war even worth the risk?

He remembers _his _wars.

_Vimy Ridge._

_Ypres._

_Somme._

_Passchendaele__._

His list could go on, if not; forever.

It was then that his eyes opened. This was not a "European Vacation".

This was _war_.

He looks upon the fallen heroes. The _true _heroes of our world. Those who fought for our security, our safety, our _Earth_.

He remembers briefly, his independence. His _peaceful_ independence. Looking out, he realized; not all conflicts can be solved in such a way.

Of course, he only gained autonomy shortly after the first Great War.

His father looking out for him; supporting him.

When the other nations put themselves in temporary isolation, it was only _them _defending Europe.

After all, what was a young man called by conscription to do?

_Forced. Military. Service._

What _could _he do?

_When he was only a _child _himself?_

_When he was caught between a man and an adolescent?_

He watched from the trenches, never mind the harsh weather conditions – as his enemies charged towards him – into no man's land.

_He felt no hate for this soldier._

This man must have a family in his country that he loves and adores as well.

But he was the enemy.

What was he supposed to do?

He watched. The man running as fast as he can into an allied bomb crater.

Running out, the man darted forward. He hands caught – almost in prayer – into the sharp barbed wire in front of him.

He heard the screams as the "enemy" pleaded for help, blood gushing and dripping on the metal as he tediously attempted to untangle himself, the wire's barbs pushing deeper into his already wounded flesh. It was a failed execution.

That was when he realized, for the second time that day.

His "enemies".

Those "monsters"

Were only "human" in the end.

_Soldiers as one; with different coloured uniforms._

_And, if they were really "enemies", why did he feel such compassion for him, in the end?_

He was known as one of the world's most peaceful nations. Some even called him "The Peace Capital of the World".

_Though people never remembered._

"Peace…" He laughed, "It's our world's ideal. But what does it really mean?"

He even became angry at one point in time.

The war was supposed to last only a few years.

Not, until a good chunk of the world's entire population was wiped out.

He looked to his right, a rookie soldier. Shivering; quivering in fear as he covered his face with a damp cloth.

He would have to prepare for the worst.

What they had learned previously; as Canadians were among the first to be hit with _mustard gas_.

And his friends!

The ones he held so dear; taken captive, abused. He felt the need to rescue them.

Some battles he won.

Some he did not.

When he did however liberate some smaller nations; pushing the opposing force away from these neutral territories; it really wasn't enough.

It was like a snake.

The only way this war would end.

The only way the "snake" would die.

They would have to aim for the _head._

He was recognized.

He ensured that when they banded together, they would put an end to it all.

Those kinds of things, one would _never _forget.

Looking out, he speculates the graves.

His periods of silence paid; but not close to enough.

The debt these heroic warriors slaved for; was a large one.

* * *

The red sea of poppies, he stood amidst, like waves they gently pushed against the headstones of the departed. Thanking them for their services.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and shocked, he turned around, "O-oh, Hello."

"Matthew…"His brother started, worriedly, "It's time to go."

"I know." He sighed, "…I can't believe we lost all _this _for a price that was way too high a cost."

* * *

**In Flander's Fields**

In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flander's fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with us who die  
We shall not sleep, tho poppies grow  
In Flander's fields.

_Liet. -Col. John McCrae Of Canada_


End file.
